Bastien (7 page)

It’s the same thing Madame Bordeaux told me the day she broke off our liaison. She said it the same way, in a soft, tempered tone that made me agree with her. We kissed and parted amicably as friends. I never begrudged her any of her lovers, just as she never became bitter of any of mine.

Lilith’s face becomes so pale it glows and realize my mistake. The Faery princess is not human, she’s not used to being denied and will most definitely not react in any way I can anticipate. “You think to dismiss
me
?” she hisses.

Before I can formulate an apology, spin a graceful sentence to ease her growing temper, she swirls her cloak and transforms into her true visage, a goddess bright as the sun, her hair flowing about her on currents of magic. The light she casts is terrible. Her voice booms and makes the stone walls shudder.

I fall to my knees and cover my ears as she screams her fury. “
Mortal scum!
” she roars like an avalanche set to bury me alive. “
Heartless monster with a pretty face! We’ll see how pretty
you are when I show you your true self!
”

Lightning cracks and sizzles all around me, bouncing off the walls. It strikes me down, again and again, battering me from all sides until I am sure I’m about to die.

“
I curse you, Beast, and all you posses!
”

My body shatters into a thousand pieces, and then those pieces smash back together again. I can’t find breath to scream. Blinded by light and darkness in turn, I catch glimpses of my own hands. They are monstrous, clawed appendages that cannot belong to me. I squeeze my eyes shut and just catch a quick flash of a face. Red-brown hair, pale skin, pink lips parted on a gasp, blue eyes wide with fear. My Strength, the woman from my dreams silently shouts my name and then she is gone and I am alone again, dying.

Lilith’s voice tears through the lingering memory of her face. “
Find someone to love now,
Beast, or stay this way forever!
”

The scream is mine. It’s the last of me that exists before it transforms into a terrifying roar and I am no more.

Chapter Twelve

When he wakes he is on the cold stone floor with no notion how he got there, or why every bone in his body hurts so much he can hardly move. Through the pounding in his head he hears sobs. He groans and slowly opens his eyes. There are bright sparks flashing everywhere, making it difficult to focus, but as they begin to fade he can see the fire has gone out. The only illumination comes from candles and torches held by the people around him. Maids, servants, hostlers and cooks, the entire household staff is there, staring and weeping.

None of them come to his aid, so he is forced to struggle to rise on his own. Every move is agony when he is weak and aching like a weathered old man, but at last he makes it to his feet.

The women scream, causing needles of pain to stab through his ears and he snarls.

Torches wave back and forth as though to ward him off, and the staff backs away from him with garbled shouts. They are so small he towers over them. It must be some sort of illusion. He must be feverish or injured in the head somehow.

His balance is wavering. He sways and tilts sideways, and before he can catch himself he is falling against an empty suit of armor. It clatters to the floor along with him, the sound piercing his sensitive ears. He roars, startling himself as well as the others. His limbs are tangled in the armor, but he can’t fight himself free and falls back to fours more often than not.

Panic begins to sink in. Nothing is working right, not his arms, or his legs. His tail swishes of its own accord, knocking down a candlestick and setting the tatters of his clothes on fire. He tries to cry out and produces something akin to an animal wail. Uncomprehending, terrified, he lashes out at the armor breastplate, sends it flying into what remains of the crowd of servants.

They scatter.

An acrid taste on his tongue has him sneezing. Fear. He is tasting the air, and it’s saturated with fear. Desperate to escape, he bounds up the staircase, pieces of armor still threaded onto his limbs. He runs as though a monster is nipping at his heels, and when he slips and collides with the door, it is knocked off its hinges. Nothing to place between him and the beast. He runs into the darkest corner he can find and curls up, making himself as small as possible. Even so, he is larger than the massive bed.

Footsteps rush up the staircase toward him. He is trapped. Cornered. His lips draw back in a feral snarl and a growl reverberates in his massive chest. He doesn’t understand what’s going on.

What happened to him?

The footsteps slow out in the hall. Three men approach with caution whispering to each other. He can scent their apprehension and something else. Something... cold and metallic.

Weapons. Without conscious thought, his claws curl downward and snatch on the carpet, ripping into it. He stares down at his own paw. It used to be something else. Something smaller, more delicate. It used to hold things and not destroy them.

“Stop!” someone out there shouts. A fourth man, his voice calm and steady, familiar. “Put those away this instant.”

“You saw it! You saw what it did!”

What did it do? What is
it
? Are they talking about him?

“Let me speak to him.”

“Are you mad?”

“You can stand guard by the door. If I need assistance I’ll call for it. Until then, stay out of sight!”

The man comes inside. His scent is in the anteroom, and then closer. His shadow fills the doorway and stops. “My Lord?” he says in a tempered tone. “My Lord.”

The creature in shadow works his tongue around in his mouth. He remembers how he used to use it. Now his mouth feels different. His tongue and throat are strange. “I...” he tries, frightened by his own rumbling voice. But it is a voice. Not a growl, howl, or wail. He can speak. “I am... no lord.”

The man in the doorway comes a step closer. “Do you know me? I am Jacques, your head of household.”

The name is familiar. He has difficulty saying it. It takes three tries to get his tongue to cooperate. “Jacques,” he repeats. “What... am I?”

There is something akin to relief in Jacques’ scent. He turns away to wave the others off and they retreat. Another step closer. Too close. At his growl, Jacques stops and lowers to one knee.

“Your name is Bastien Sauvage,” he says. “You are the master of this castle.”

“No!”

Jacques flinches but doesn’t retreat. “I know you are afraid. There is no need. We all know you. We know you would not harm us. Please, let us help.”

“Can you ... save me?”

Sadness. It weighs heavily on Jacques and the creature, too. “I’m afraid not.”

I am a beast.
The shining female called him that, so it must be true. His name is Beast. And he cannot be saved. He tears into his chest with sharp claws, throws his massive head back and howls. Far in the distance, in the deep woods that smell of darkness and mystery, a pack of wolves answer his wretched cry.

Chapter Thirteen

Despite Jacques’ soft tones and reassurances, the Beast will not be coaxed out of the darkness. He can hear the others far below, arguing, weeping. They are terrified. Half of them want to run and the other half is ready to take up pitchforks and kill the Beast.

Finally, Jacques relents and seeks out the others to tell them what happened. Jacques knows so much that the Beast is sure the man must have seen it happen, for even he doesn’t remember some of it. The butler tells them the enchantress cursed them all. They don’t believe him.

Jacques sends a young boy to fetch Monsieur Lafarge. More people? Aren’t there enough already? The Beast stops listening. He cautiously comes out of hiding and stalks the chamber. It is somehow familiar to him, but he can’t be certain he’s been here before. It feels like his lair, smells familiar enough, but nothing looks as it should. So much he has forgotten. Jacques called him Bastien.

There is a portrait of a man on the wall with a plaque which reads that name. He is handsome, with golden hair and a smartly cut coat. But his eyes are cold and hard, and the smile on his face is a mocking smirk.

The Beast turns away from it and goes searching for more. He finds clothing tailored to a man, much too small for him, yet the fabrics match the tatters still hanging on his frame. Could they have belonged to him?

The balcony is closed. He fumbles with the latch as gently as he can to open the door. The delicate hook breaks off in his claws, but the door opens and he can step out into the night. From here, he can see the forest surrounding this castle as well as lights in the distance, a village of some sort.

Fauve. Yes, that is the name of it. The village of Fauve. And he remembers, too, that a Monsieur Lafarge lives on the other side of it. He used to know the man’s given name as well.

Lars? Louis. That’s it. They are friends... or used to be.

Memories flit like ghosts across his mind. They come slowly as the night passes him by. He doesn’t want to sleep, too afraid of what he might see in his dreams, but all too soon exhaustion claims him and he is plunged into a life that used to be his.

It’s a nightmare. The Beast sees as though through the eyes of another. It must be another; some demon crawled up from the pits of hell. No man could be so cruel and heartless. Yet even as he denies his own past, he knows every detail to be true and it horrifies him.

When he sees the enchantress, a matchless beauty clad in mist, beckoning to him, when he feels his treacherous body respond to her, he wakes with a roar. Blinded with fury, he lashes out at everything in sight. He shreds the bed to pieces with hardly a blink. The armoire breaks apart, the glittering bottles of liquor shatter all around. The Beast tears clothing into ribbons and then sinks his claws into the source of his misery—the portrait. Ripping that smug face off the canvas brings him little satisfaction.

He collapses to the floor, breathing so hard he is growling without meaning to, and sees something red beneath a fall of tattered bedding. It stirs another kind of memory. He pads over to it and with a single claw draws out a card. It is a rose, with the word Strength written above it.

“Well, my boy. It would seem I was right.”

The Beast turns his head toward the voice. He didn’t hear the man enter, yet there he is.

Louis Lafarge, his once oldest friend. His eyes are wide as he beholds what the Beast has become, but he does not fear. The Beast slides the Strength card back out of sight. “Have you come to gloat?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary, do you?”

The Beast growls.

“Come on, then, let’s see what we can do to make you more presentable.”

The bathing room is attached to these chambers, just off the anteroom. There are mirrors in there so large the Beast can see the whole of himself. “I am a monster,” he says.

His bulk is easily twice as big as any man. His jaws could crush a skull with ease. He has a short snout, but massive fangs. A lion’s mane, but the torso of an animal used to throwing its weight around. His front paws have an almost opposable thumb—he can grasp things, but with difficulty—and his claws don’t retract. His hind legs and paws are just wide enough that he can stand on twos, but his sheer size makes that the least favorable position. There is a tail, too. Not short, nor long, somewhere between a panther and a fox. The wicked Faery has turned him into a mismatched puzzle of animal parts covered in golden fur, with just enough humanity to make him the stuff of nightmares.

“Yes, you are,” Louis says. “Some might say you always were.”

The Beast drops his gaze.

“Will you tell me what’s happened? Do you even remember? Jacques seems to think your memory was affected by the spell.”

“I remember,” the Beast says. But he doesn’t tell. Caution keeps him silent; he doesn’t want Louis to know about the rose.

“Very well, then.” Louis calls for servants to bring hot water and a tailor to clothe the Beast.

He remains in the room while they work, an unspoken assurance that the overlarge monster is harmless. They still fear him. They can see what he did to his own chambers.

Jacques is there, too. He tells Louis about the spell, that all of the castle and its inhabitants are affected by it. He says several servants have tried to leave already but were somehow...

prevented from crossing the gates.

“But the boy got through,” Louis says.

“It would appear so,” Jacques replies.

“The boy returned,” the Beast says. “The others would not have.”

“Could it really be that simple?” Jacques asks.

“Despicably simple, if it’s true. A clever little spell,” Louis says. “You can leave so long as you intend to return. If not, you are bound to the castle grounds. A lovely gilded chain she put on the lot of you.”

“What if one leaves with the intention of returning and somewhere along the way changes his mind?” Jacques muses.

Louis shrugs. “I would imagine in such a case the curse would somehow compel him to come back.” He chuckles. “The cruelty of it is... almost fitting.”

The Beast hangs his head. He can’t look at them anymore. Because of his mistakes, and everything else he did with calculated intent, everyone in this castle must suffer with him.

“Except it’s not, is it?” Louis says, watching him closely. “Bastien, tell me about the last woman you fucked.”

The Beast snarls at him. “What your tongue!”

Louis’ eyes grow wide again. “Bastien would have told me. He would have boasted and described every last detail.” He exhales a breath of stunned wonder. “Sweet God above, it’s not you at all.”

Chapter Fourteen

The servants decide the only way to break the curse is to kill the Beast. It only takes them a week to rack up their courage. They chase him out of the castle and into the snowy garden. He is more certain out of doors. In the middle of the garden he turns on them and roars at the top of his massive lungs. Those at the front of the mob fall back and one man impales himself on a spear.

All of them stop in shock and horror. They watch the spear be pulled from the dying man, watch his blood soak the snow, and do nothing as he gasps for breath. Then he stops breathing all together.